Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Tom Riddle, Muggles, Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle Sr., Tom/Voldemort's grandfather, and the same's mother. Etc., etc., etc. The italicized part was influenced by the author Giliath (not Giliad, as I said before)'s story "Entanglement, She Wrote." Or something like that. LOL. Anyhow, I would appreciate it if you keep your lawyers away from me. I have pepper spray and I know how to use it!
A/N: This was hard for me to write, sorry!
I wrap myself in silence, in despair. Abandon myself to the darkness. To death... I have lived so many years like this, alone in body and in spirit, and I have passed all hope of going back.
The envy sweeps over me in a seething storm. Envy of their strength, their happiness, their innocence. Sometimes I can't stand it any more. Sometimes I am filled with hate. I am afraid. Of myself.
I am a specter in these halls, and nobody notices. Ghost... Ghost of what? Of whom? I call myself Voldemort, in my mind at least, and I have been called Tom. I was once small, untainted, beautiful. Am I now the ghost of that boy? There is no innocence left in me...
In my mind, I am ruthless. Powerful. Feared. Voldemort... Tom Marvolo Riddle. I Am Lord Voldemort. But there is so much of Tom left in me, that powerless boy yearning for revenge, and I am still too weak. My name is unknown where it should be feared. But I will be feared. And I will have revenge...
Family. You take it for granted, don't you? Like something that should be yours. Is yours by right. Innocent things... I will make you pay for having what I never will. You will pay for your happiness. You will pay, oh, yes... and you will regret that you ever were born. I am Lord Voldemort...
***
He stood before the shadowy dwelling, cape hanging limp in the oppressive silence. Heat rippled from the pavement in waves, dying slowly in the black night. Light glinted on his eyes, the pupils unnaturally contracted. A limestone-paneled path, flanked by perfectly manicured lawn, lead up to this building that so filled him with hatred, with seething envy and agony... And then that all vanished. Left him silent. He whispered, and clouds gathered to cover the moon. And he began to walk...
His shoes clapped the limestone, each disquiet fading into the overwhelming stillness. He came to the door, briefly noted the ornate carvings in the solid oak. The knocker was snake-shaped, and he smiled sarcastically at the irony. His eyes were hard, cold, iron. Did not smile. Ever.
Brass struck brass, and a crack shredded the silence, startling him. Through his eyes darted a sliver of nervousness, and he started when the door creaked open, groaning heavily with age. A man- butler, most likely- greeted him.
"I'd like to see- Tom Riddle, please," he announced, voice cracking, as if with disuse. The butler bowed, withdrew silently. He waited, hearing footsteps rise as the butler climbed a flight of stairs somewhere in the house. The door had been half-shut in his face, and he mused that either his parents were not overly well-mannered, or the servants were ignorant. Possibly both, knowing Muggles.
The door opened again, protesting loudly. A different servant now, small and female. She curtsied clumsily, and led him upwards.
Three people. They seemed to have just finished a meal, by the dirty dishes and silverware piled on the edge of the table. His features were echoed back at him from three directions. Two men, one older, one younger, both black-haired, green-eyed. Father. Grandfather. He named them silently, sadly, hatefully. A woman, skeletal form showing through her black gown. Her eyes were obsidian, theirs were flint. From the look on his father's face, he recognized the boy.
"You recognize me, I see.
Father." His mother's eyes widened, owlish-looking in her white face. Menacingly, his father stood, but his face, too, was pale with fear."Get out."
"I'm not a baby anymore, father. You can't make me go away. Not until I've killed you. I've learned a lot since you saw me last. I'm not a baby anymore."
"You're one of them." It was a statement, and a fearful one at that. Masked, but fearful. Tom could hear the trembling in the words, and his mouth twisted into what was not quite a smile.
"If you mean I am a wizard, yes. Yes, and a powerful one. More powerful than you'll ever be, with physical strength alone." He turned towards his grandfather, bowed.
"
Avada Kedavra." The words were smooth on his tongue, between his lips. The man died, without ever knowing what had happened. But his parents would."So you see, you don't have a chance. Mother, father, you're going to die tonight. And you deserve it.
Avada Kedavra."
His mother crumpled.
He turned to his father, who was half-paralyzed, still standing in front of his chair, but menacing no more.
"Genetically, I'm half you. You named me Tom Riddle, after yourself. And I guess it's because of you that I learned this.
Avada Kedavra."
And he left.
***